


Only Thinkin' Of You

by quietkindaperson



Category: Midnight Cowboy (1969)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My First Fanfic, Period Typical Attitudes, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietkindaperson/pseuds/quietkindaperson
Summary: Joe comes home a little drunk. Rico gets drunker. Cue confession time and cuddling.This might be a work in progress, considering! (If so I want them to make it to Florida -- I can't help it, ok?)
Relationships: Joe Buck & Rico "Ratso" Rizzo, Joe Buck/Rico "Ratso" Rizzo
Comments: 19
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic! :) I love this tiny fandom, and I really hope you enjoy this if you found it. :) These are the chapters I have done right now, but if people end up wanting more, I might add! Let me know what you think in the comments!

Rico’s POV 

It was cold in New York. Correction: it was fucking cold. Yeah, fucking. Rico’s mother might have never let him say it, but she was long gone. And it was goddamn fucking cold. 

There’d been a snowstorm the night before, and in the X-flat, it was subzero. Rico shivered underneath the layers of stolen coats and threadbare blankets piled on his thin bed, his teeth chattering involuntarily. _God damn it. Mary, mother of God._

One of the coats had been stolen from a porno theater — it was too big for him, and he’d swiped it right out from under the nose of whatever guy had left it hanging near the door. Rico almost scoffed thinking about it — poor shlub. Just wanted a quick look at what he couldn’t get, and ended up there. He would’ve shaken his head if it hadn’t been frozen. 

The coat smelled a little bit like whatever cologne its owner’d been wearing before Rico had swiped it — almost a spicy kind of smell. Rico inhaled it, hoping or imagining it’d bring some kind of warmth into his body. _All alone, goddamnit. All alone on the goddamn coldest day of the year._ He shivered again, and felt his ribs against the bed. Too thin. Too cold. What he wouldn’t give for a warm bed or a warm room or a warm — 

He stopped the thought before it could go any farther. _Warm what, Rico?_ Warm goddamn nothin’. He was laying there like a bump on a log, doing nothing for the good of himself, and who was out there fucking working the street? Joe, that’s who. 

Joe, with his stupid cowboy hat and his stupid fringed vest, the vest he wouldn’t take off even if it’d been minus ten outside. Rico frowned. Probably cold as shit, and that was without all them frigid broads. 

Joe’d been getting more money than usual for about a month, around Christmastime, and he and Rico had been able to afford some food and medicine. Once, Joe had even gone down to that nice Italian market and bought frozen pasta and tomatoes just so Rico could show him how to make a real sauce. Goddamn him. He was trying. Rico shut his eyes, remembering. 

_Well damn, Ratso! You sure know how to make a damn spaghetti sauce, huh? Where’d you learn to do that, boy? Your mama?_

He grimaced, the memory interrupted by a pressure inside his skull. His eyes felt dry, his mouth thick. And that was under the blankets. He tried not to think about Joe, standing up against a building or outside a hotel, thumbing at people. People wanted company at Christmastime, but it dropped off after New Year’s. Typical, he guessed, though he hadn’t been the manager of some street stud last year. Too cold now, probably. All them ladies were probably hurrying home to their husbands, their boyfriends, their warm apartments and hot drinks. Drinks. What Rico wouldn’t give for a little bit of red wine. It’d keep him warm, that was for sure. Help him to relax, too. Not that he was worrying about Joe. 

Then again, though, maybe Joe had struck it good. Maybe he’d found some old lady desperate enough to invite him up for the night. That wouldn’t be so bad. Yeah, it’d be alright. He could picture it if he tried: Joe in a warm bed, soaking up the heat of some blonde in satin pajamas. He’d be comfortable, not lonely. He’d be better off. Rico nodded to himself. Yeah, he’d be better off. And then there was the money. If Joe had struck it, they could buy more of that bread from the corner store. Maybe even another box of candles. It’d be fine. Good, even. Rico swallowed, and heard a click as the thick saliva went down. God. He did want Joe somewhere safe. Not here. 

A little part of him felt bad for thinking it. He was the one who took him in, wasn’t he? He was the one who offered up his bed when Joe needed to sleep somewhere. So what if it was cold? At least he wasn’t sleeping on the street. Rico shivered. He’d been there for while before he’d found the abandoned apartment. People out there weren’t so kind, especially if you had a bad leg. 

His eyes opened, and he trained them on the bare wall. Joe’s bed was across the way from his, but he had the cutout picture of the orange juice ad, so his was snazzier. _What are you doing looking at an empty wall, huh?_ He swallowed again. _What, is it finally time to die? _He pulled the coat over him more closely, anchored it with his stiff fingers. Something was bothering him, he realized, and it wasn’t his damn leg. Mentally, he ran through a list of everything that’d been hurting — throat, lungs, leg. Nothing. So why did he feel so sick? He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to picture the beach — the place they might get to if Joe could be a good enough stud and Rico could be a good enough manager. The sun, the water. The feeling of warm sand beneath his feet —__

____

____

And there was that feeling again. Like the time he’d puked in school as a kid. _Joe’s probably safe, though,_ he thought. _Joe’s not sick._

Again, his mind flashed to the mystery woman. Her hair was blonde. Her legs were long and hairless, and she pulled him — Joe — in. She was a woman. She was any woman. She was somebody Joe would blush at. She was somebody Joe would —

Rico sat up, the coat still gathered around his front. A blast of cold air hit his back. Fuck. What the fuck was that? Imagining Joe doing god knows what on his job? Imagining the lady, more like. Imagining her. _Not that you’ve been laid recently. Not that you’ve ever been laid._ He shook the thought out of his head. Goddamn thoughts. Always making him confused. 

The night wind blew through the window again, and Rico shivered. Now _that_ was what mattered. The cold, and his empty stomach. And Joe, somewhere out there. Making money, that was.

Rico laid back down, and when his head hit the thin pillow, he passed out. 

Rico didn’t wake up all at once. 

He came to in layers. The dream he was having slipped away, and then he heard something — somebody saying something. It was any voice, a dream voice. And then it was a familiar one. And then it was Joe’s. He opened his eyes painfully, flipping over so he could see the door. 

The cold was coming in in waves through the open door, and Rico would normally have told him to shut it. But Joe was standing there different. He looked proud, his hat under his arm, his cheeks reddish. Rico couldn’t tell if it was the weather or something else. 

And Joe was smiling. Smiling as hard as ever. Little snowflakes were caught in his hair, tiny drops of water clinging to his forehead and his eyelashes. Rico might have needed other aids, but he didn’t need glasses. 

Suddenly, he pictured how he must look to Joe — black hair disheveled and unwashed, sticking up at odd angles from his sleep. He was pale by his own standard — his olive skin would never be translucent, but it was as damn close as it would ever be. Goddamnit. Joe was standing here all rosy, and here he was, a sick mess. Might was well speak up and break the moment. 

“Hey, what are you doin’? You’re gonna let the goddamn heat out.”

Joe broke from his jubilant reverie, his eyes landing on Rico. Rico could’ve imagined it, but there was a little drop of concern in them. 

“Oh, sorry Rat— Rico. I didn’t mean to.” 

He shut the door, pulling it until he felt it click against the broken frame. As soon as he did, the smile was back. He swung his arm up and the cowboy hat went back on. Rico noticed one of his arms was behind his back, and a little chill went up his spine. Relax, he thought, willing himself to back down. It’s Joe. It’s only Joe. 

“S’ okay,” Rico said, drawing the coat back around his thin shoulders. “I just didn’t want you getting colder.”

Joe smiled wider. “Hey boy. I don’t need to worry about that.” He moved closer to the bed, and suddenly, before Rico realized it, he sat on the foot of his bed. 

Something in Rico’s brain went quiet for a second. 

“Uh, Joe?”

“Yeah?” 

Rico gathered his breath. Joe’s weight was on his feet, warm and heavy. “You’re bed’s, uh. Over there. On the other side. Okay?”

Joe snorted, laughing quietly. He moved his arm out from behind his back, and that was when Rico saw he’d been holding a bottle of wine. 

“This is a bed,” Joe said. “M’ pretty sure this is a bed.”

 _Oh fuck. Marone. Joe was fucking drunk._

“Joe, yeah,” Rico started, and realized his throat was dry. “Uh yeah. It’s a bed. But it’s my bed.”

“Oh,” Joe said, his eyes wandering down to the bedsheets. “Well do you mind if I sit here then?”

Rico rolled his eyes. Joe was looking at him all puppy-like, the way he did when he was trying to convince Rico to go along with some stupid scheme. Stupid cowboy. Jesus Christ. His cheeks were still pink, pinched by the winter cold. Rico cursed himself silently. This was a bad idea. He didn’t know why, he didn’t know how, but this was a bad idea. Joe was the kinda guy who might keep him up all night talking, or maybe trying to get him to listen to mystery stories on the radio. He’d never get any sleep. 

True, he’d never actually seen Joe drink, but he had a feeling drunk Joe would be just as chatty as regular Joe. Maybe worse. And damn it all, he was getting soft. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Rico sighed, and moved his legs up to hold them close to his body. “You can sit here, okay? That make you happy?”

Joe didn’t answer, just grinned. Rico rolled his eyes. 

“Joe, how’s it that you got that wine?”

Joe laughed, clapping one knee. The leather made a sharp sound against the walls of the flat. 

“A lady gave it to me,” he said, and Rico noted his voice was a little slurred. “A lady who called me up to her place.”

“Oh yeah? Wanted you up that way?”

Joe’s eyes went wide, and for a second Rico thought he was offended somehow. Then he laughed again, that same short, southern laugh Rico was familiar with. 

“She did, boy. And we — we made it.”

The weird heat was back. Rico felt his eyebrows furrow. “Okay. So how much money’d she give ya, huh? I hope it was enough.”

Joe looked at the ceiling . “Ah, um ….. 20 bucks?”

Rico scowled. Joe was still holding the neck of the wine bottle, but it was slipping a little from his grasp. Rico leaned forward to grab it, the coat slipping from his shoulders. Suddenly, he felt exposed — even wearing the shirt he had buttoned up to his ears, there was a weird feeling of warmth spreading across his chest. 

“20 bucks?” The wine bottle was light, and Rico managed to lift it into his lap, resting it between his knees. “Well, okay. 20 bucks, not bad.”

Joe smiled, seeming to have forgotten that Rico’d taken the wine bottle out of his hands. His chest puffed up a little, and he turned to face Rico. 

“Yeah not bad! And for allllll that.” He smiled, lopsided. “All that, boy.”

Rico eyed the bottle, sloshing the red liquid back and forth. If god heard one prayer, it had to be this. Wine. 

“All right, all right. I don’t needta hear the details.”

Joe, not normally one to get upset by Rico’s acidity, wasn’t getting upset now. He grinned, leaning a little closer to Rico’s side of the bed. 

“Well now, they weren’t real bad. We just did the usual, and she fell asleep, and hey — after she did, guess what?” He smiled, blushing. 

Rico huffed. The lying part of him said he was mad. The other part knew he couldn’t be. 

“What, Joe?”

Joe snickered. “I took this here wine, boy.” 

He looked at his hand as if to present it to Rico, and looked stricken when he realized it was bare. His eyes flickered to Rico’s hand, and his shoulders relaxed. 

“Yeah. That one.”

Rico couldn’t help himself. He laughed a little. 

“You mean this wine?” He shook it, the liquid sloshing back and forth. “This wine?”

Joe’s face was glowing, reddish and happy, and Rico realized as he held the wine that there was at least a half a bottle left. Either Joe Buck was a lightweight or he hadn’t wanted to be too drunk. 

“Come on boy,” Joe said. “You know it’s that one.”

Some of the flush in his cheeks was gone, and Rico could tell he was coming down. He’d probably had the last sip when he’d left, the wine good enough to hold off the weather until he got home. He’d never been that drunk. Joe was just nice. What most people were drunk, Joe buck was regular. 

“I know,” Rico said. He lifted his eyes to Joe’s. “You didn’t drink all this, did you?”

Joe snorted. “I drank about half of a half. I don’t feel sick. Just good.” He smiled. “Haven’t had it in so long. I didn’t wanna overdo it.”

Rico’s eyes were trained on the bottle. 

“Okay. I was a little worried there Joe. We can’t — we can’t have you gettin drunk around the ladies. They need top quality Joe Buck, right?”

Joe perked up, smiling. “Aw, that’s right. That’s just right, Rico.”

 _Rico._

Something inside him panged. 

Joe was eyeing the bottle, and Rico held it out so he could take it, but Joe just shook his head. 

“I had enough back at her place. You have some.”

Rico’s dry throat went even drier. 

“Aw, come on. I don’t need this. I’m the one layin’ at home. You’re the one out on the street.”

Joe’s face smoothed, taking on the look it sometimes did when Rico was too sick to take care of things around the flat or needed medicine Joe had to go buy. 

“I had some. Want me to pour it out?”

He moved to stand, and Rico covered the bottle with his arms, glaring. 

“Okay, fine. Yeah, I’ll have it. Goddamn, Joe.”

Joe smiled, pleased with himself. Rico shook his head. He looked down, staring at the dark liquid swirling around in the green glass. _If nobody drinks this, it’s wasted._ Joe doesn’t want it, does he? He glanced up. He’d expected Joe to be lost in his own thoughts. Instead, his eyes were trained on him. 

“All right, all right. Thanks.” 

Rico tipped the bottle to his lips, and the cold wine rushed into his mouth. It was thick, tangy, familiar. His mind flashed to some Christmas Eve, his mother setting out glasses of table wine for the kids. So much better than that crap at communion. By the time he was back in the present, he was swallowing his second gulp. He lowered the bottle quickly, glaring over the rim at Joe, who was smiling. _Jesus. Did he ever stop that?_

“Good?”

“Yeah, good,” Rico said. The layers of coats and blankets were starting to feel warm. He shucked off the coat, and felt the sweat on his arms hit by the cold air. Was it a fever? 

He waited for Joe to reply, but there was nothing. He glanced over. Joe was looking at him. Joe was _really looking at him._

His eyes were glassy, but getting less so by the minute. Still, there was something else that felt off, something that made Joe look like he’d taken another drink right in front of him. 

Rico scowled. “What?”

“Aw, nothin.’” Joe stuck his hands in his pockets, something he did when he didn’t know what else to do. 

“Well, you just look happy is all.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Rico softened. “Hey, you wanna hear somethin’ funny?”

Joe shifted his weight on the bed, his knees knocking into Rico’s. He would have moved, but the wine was starting to warm him already, and Joe was warm too, so what was the point of moving? He took another swig from the bottle. 

“Before you got home, I was thinkin’ I wanted wine.”

Joe’s eyes went wide. “No shit.” 

Rico nodded. “Yep. I was thinkin’ about it. And here it is. I guess you made out pretty good, Joe.” 

For the first time that night, he smiled. Normally he didn’t like to do it so much because of his teeth — they were pretty dirty, and it made his cough come easier. Right now, it didn’t seem to matter as much. 

Joe laughed. “Well damn. I guess I did.”

He paused, and Rico felt the same warmth come over him that’d first come out when Joe gave him the bottle. The space between them on the bed was getting warm, even with Rico under the covers and Joe sitting on top of them. Rico cleared his throat, feeling some of the mucus that had gathered there loosen. He took another pull of the wine. 

It was getting hot. _Hot, in this weather._ Rico wanted to laugh. How fucking stupid. Joe’s body heat combined with the wine was making him sweat a little. God, it’d be nice to be a little more comfortable. Everything else seemed to fade out for a minute. Rico tugged at his shirt collar, undoing the first couple buttons, and slid one of his shoulders out from the shirt. 

“Whew,” he said, not really to Joe. “That’s better.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things progress. (Joe's POV)

Joe’s POV 

He’d had that lady for this wine, and it was goddamn worth it. 

She’d been older — in her fifties maybe — but she seemed younger than that. He’d found her outside of her hotel, smoking. Said she’d been with a man who’d left to go back to wherever-the-hell-he’d-come-from. Joe told her he might offer a little companionship. She’d said yes. 

It’d been alright. Joe had liked it as much as he usually liked being with them ladies. She was nice, and after they’d laughed and smoked and watched something on TV. He didn’t feel bad sneaking out after. He was only there for one thing. 

By the time he’d gotten back to the X-flat, he’d had a fourth of the bottle of wine. Not enough to be flat-out drunk, but enough to keep the snow off his back. It’d felt good to have some alcohol in him, truth be told, and he’d sung a little as he walked down the dark streets. Something old. Something Sally’d taught him. 

Of course, when he got in the room, he’d been hit with the worry again. Rat- Rico was all bundled up in bed, covered in so many layers of fabric that Joe couldn’t tell if he was under ‘em at first. 

He looked bad, but not worse than usual. And when he’d given Rico the rest of the wine, he’d perked up. Gotten a little friendlier, Joe had thought. It wasn’t so bad to have a friendlier Rico. 

And it’d all been good, and they’d been laughing. And then Rico had pulled down his shirt. 

It wasn’t a lot. Just his shoulder rising out, kind of dirty. He was hot from the drinking. Joe’s stomach did a little flip flop. 

“Much better,” Rico said, seemingly not aware that Joe was still sitting facing him on the bed, their knees touching together. He smiled at Joe. His arms were starting to look kinda loose, and he rested them on the spot where their knees met. In fact, all of Rico was starting to look soft. His shoulders had lowered, the lines on his face smoothing out. He looked relaxed. 

“Hey, Rico,” Joe said, noticing with a jolt that his voice had come out cracked, “What are you doin’?” You’re gonna catch cold like that.”

Rico scoffed, smoothing his hair down with one hand. It didn’t stick, and the unruly clumps stuck right back up. 

“Nah, Joe. I’m hot.”

His cheeks were pinkish. They reminded Joe of home. It was so warm there, so dry. People walked around with red faces, but they were from the heat. Not from the cold, or a fever, or a half a bottle of wine. 

Joe coughed, moved his gaze to the wall behind Rico. Something about staring at him like that felt like intruding — something about Rico was coming out of the dark. Joe always knew it was there — it came out in moments where they were able to steal some food, when it was warmer and they could sit in the park and watch people pass by. Now, though, it was a little easier to see. Joe stared at the cutout of the orange on the wall above Rico’s bed. It was so cold in the room. His knees were warm, though, the part of him next to Rico. He huffed out a sigh. 

“Hey Rico.”

He looked up from the bottle, which was now empty. He had the familiar annoyed look he usually got when Joe interrupted him. 

“It’s cold in here.”

“No shit,” Rico said, and he was about to say something else when he looked up. Joe felt his breath catch in his throat. Rico looked — well, he looked nice. 

His face was dirty, and he needed some kinda shave and shower combination, but Joe usually didn’t care. And he didn’t care now. 

Rico’s shoulder, out of his shirt, was blushed pink by the cold of the room and the heat of his body. He looked small somehow — underneath the piles of blankets, his body seemed more fragile. Hell. He almost looked …. Joe fumbled for a word. Hell, he almost looked cute. 

Just then, Rico coughed. It was racking, and he doubled over with the force of it. Joe snapped out of his reverie, moving closer to Rico on the bed to slap him on the back. 

Rico coughed again, and his breath came slowly back to him. He raised his head. 

“Thanks, Joe.”

He was closer now, and Joe’s thigh was right next to his. He swallowed. 

“Let’s get that shoulder covered again,” Joe said, and reached over to move the coat over it. The big arm of it fell over Rico’s shoulder, and Joe’s fingers brushed against his skin. There was a moment of silence. Rico stared forward, eyes focused on the blankets. Joe didn’t move. 

What in the hell? 

Why did he feel weird all of a sudden? It was skin. Joe touched skin all day — stranger skin than this. It always felt the same to him, smooth and soft and necessary. The ladies he made it with always smelled soft, too, like perfume and shampoo. They felt okay. Good sometimes. But not like this — not like something he wanted. 

Rico’s skin was slick with sweat, but not as rough as Joe expected. And he didn’t want to take his hand away. His mind spun a little. The last time he felt like this was … it was Annie ….

No. Joe stopped himself before he could go down that road. The memories were too much, too painful, and even though he didn’t want to forget the way they’d been before, how much he loved her, he couldn’t do it. At that moment, there was something else to feel. Something else heated under his hand. Someone right next to him.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's becoming evident that body heat isn't the only reason for this close-up-ness. (Rico's POV)

Rico’s POV 

Joe was touching him, and he wasn’t stopping. 

Before his hand grazed his shoulder, Rico was happily off in la-la land, the wine making his problems fuzzier and his memories sharper. 

Christmas with his siblings, his father too, before he got sick and bit it. Candles on the tree, dinner that always felt so rich compared to what they usually ate. And it would be snowing most of the time, snowing like it was outside the flat, and when he’d go out in it, it would melt a little in his eyes —

And then there was the feeling of something warm on his shoulder. Joe’s hand, moving to cover him up with the coat, had slid across the bare part of his skin. And then it had stopped. 

Slowly, he raised his eyes to Joe. 

“Uh, Joe. You got — your hand’s on me. You can take it off.”

“Oh,” Joe fumbled, clumsy as always. “Sorry. I just — I got caught up in thinkin’ is all.” 

He moved his hand off of Rico, and the sharpness of cold air bit at his damp shoulder. Rico cringed. _Now what was that stupid cowboy doing? Did he think he was gonna freeze to death?_ When he died, it certainly wasn’t gonna be so boring —

He opened his mouth to set Joe straight, finally breaking his focus away from his memories. 

“And Joe, you don’t gotta always be doing stuff like that for me. I don’t need you to help all the time. I can do things for myself — “

He stopped. Joe was looking away, cheeks reddish. It could’ve been he was embarrassed. But it also could’ve been something else. The wine blurred the edges of Rico’s vision. Joe, the stud who was supposed to be out romancing ladies, was here, back here, and it was probably because he was worried. Something inside Rico hated it, but a smaller, quieter part was whispering too. 

_But you like that he left. You like that he’s not with her anymore. The whole time he was gone, what were you doing? Thinkin’ about Joe._

His hat had fallen askew, and he looked damn cold. He looks like he might freeze. _Look at him. He’s big, but that doesn’t make him cold-proof._

Joe’s face was blushed pinkish, the color traveling from his cheeks to his nose. Rico noticed that his shirt was open a little, probably from his job. That’d make a guy cold. Before he knew was he was doing, he moved the covers aside and struggled up to his feet until he was standing in front of Joe. 

“Look, it’s okay. I’m not tryin’ to berate you here. It’s just that I’m cold and you know that puts me in a bad mood. Okay?” 

Joe nodded. 

“Now look. You’re sittin’ here all sad when you just had a successful night. And we got money for food tomorrow, and we got warmed up with the wine. You did good, Joe. Button your shirt.”

He reached out, as sure as he’d been when he cut Joe’s hair, and moved to do up the buttons that weren’t broken. One, two, three — The fourth one snagged, and Rico fell forward. And for a second, he thought that somehow this was how he’d lose it for good. 

But big arms went around him, and then Rico was propped up in Joe’s lap, his legs across his knees. _Oh. Oh, goddamn it._ This was embarrassing. This was shit he’d never be caught dead doing, never want to even think about. And Joe — he was afraid to turn his head, afraid to look him in the eye. Joe was probably waiting to let go, just as embarrassed as he was. He turned around to face him. 

Joe wasn’t angry. His face was open, his mouth a little slack. Rico felt his arms still right around him, not loosening. Rico inhaled, sharp. 

“You almost fell,” Joe said, his voice quiet. 

Rico didn’t say anything. There was something in his chest warmed up by the wine. It was starting to hurt. 

Joe’s eyes flashed with concern. “You okay, boy? You almost fell. Did you get hurt?”

“No,” Rico managed. “It was the buttons.”

Joe paused for a minute, considering. He blushed a little deeper, but didn’t turn from Rico. He could feel a little tremble in Joe’s arms. 

“Hey Rico,” Joe said, mumbling a little. “Could I — Hey, now, don’t take this weird. Could I keep on doin’ this for a minute?” 

Rico felt heat creeping into his cheeks. He was so small in Joe’s arms, his feet grazing the ground. The kids at school always told him he was a runt, that he was never gonna look like he should. He’d never let it bother him. So what he was short? If anything, it let him pick pockets easier. Now, though, he minded less than ever. He felt warm, comforted. Cared for, maybe. 

Joe was clearly taking his silence as disturbance, and started to let Rico go. And then those confusing thoughts came back in. _Say something. You don’t wanna make him feel like he did something wrong, not after that whole mess! Do ya?_

“Joe, um.”

Joe looked down at him, halfway through lowering him back to the floor. Now the holding had turned more into cradling. Rico’s back was nestled against Joe’s stomach. He could feel his breath. 

Joe’s eyes were wide, waiting. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, go on,” Rico said, his voice only a little slurred. “But can — can ya lift me up a little?”

Joe did, and Rico once again found himself supported by his arms. His mind spun. 

_Why the hell would Joe want to hold him, all dirty and no account, when he had all those ladies? Something must’ve gotten into him. Maybe he had more wine than he let on._

But Joe’s eyes were getting clearer. He knew somehow that wine wasn’t the reason. And what was he doing letting him do this? He should slap him away, tell him to get the hell off. But …. it was nice. It felt nice. Joe was warm, and his body heat radiated out like a furnace. Maybe that was it — maybe Joe was just cold. 

_Then why is he holding you, huh?_

Rico had gone back-to-back with somebody before to keep the cold out. This wasn’t that. Joe’s eyes were shut, but his lips were moving a little. Saying something. His fingers kept shifting on Rico’s arms, feeling for something over and over again. The wine had melted Rico’s strength a little, and Joe held him like he wanted to protect something breakable. 

“But uh — Joe?”

“Yeah” His opened his eyes, and Rico noted that his pupils were big. 

“Why do you wanna h — wanna pick me up?” 

Joe still looked nervous, testing the water. Rico could feel him tensing up, and realized how weird it was to not be afraid of that. 

“You looked cold before,” Joe said. “And well. I thought about it. I mean, I’ve been thinkin’ about it. And I want to. Aw, hell. I want to have you close, I guess.”

Rico’s heart kickstarted into a faster beat. Joe was so straightforward, so honest. That was his problem. He trusted people too damn much, thought they’d be nice to him back. And now, here he was holding someone in his arms and expecting him not to shove him away. 

Rico’s heart thudded in his chest. He couldn’t count the beats if he tried. 

“I was thinking — well, I’ve been thinkin’. I was with that lady tonight, and she was nice and all — real nice. And we smoked and drank, and I was layin’ there, and I realized I wasn’t payin’ no attention.” He lowered his eyes. “I was thinkin’ about you.”

 _And there it was._ No lead up, nothing to prepare him for it at all. Joe wasn’t like that.

Rico waited for Joe to say something else, but nothing came. They were looking at each other, but he only noticed in the back of his mind. _Oh. Oh._ Was Joe waiting for something? 

“Thinking?”

Joe nodded. His face was closer than Rico had thought at first, and he could trace the lines of his face with his eyes. Even if he was losing his nerve, his arms weren’t getting any weaker. Rico realized that he’d sunk even deeper into them. 

“Thinkin’ about you. And I didn’t wanna stay. And now I’m here, and here you are, and damn it. I wanna be with you.”

Rico’s heart was doing something funny. He’d never felt it before like this, but even as he wanted to ignore it, there was something familiar about it. 

_Ten years ago,_ he remembered. _That girl in the park. Five years ago. Somebody at the bar._

Oh fuck. It wasn’t the fever. It was something like need.

Not that he’d ever needed anybody, not really. Not that he’d ever been close enough to someone to really feel the sick feeling in his stomach he had, or to want to look at that person’s face for so long, or want to do something for them. It was right there, Rico knew it. It was something he could never have. But here it was.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Joe's reasons for coming home. (Joe's POV)

Joe’s POV

In bed with the nice older lady, Joe had been thinking about Rico. 

He didn’t want to see it at first. She had held onto him under the covers, and Joe put his arm around her, and she laughed. Everything was working out just fine. The very thing he came to the city for -- a willing rich lady and a warm hotel room. He laid back, trying to let relaxation overtake him. And that was when the thoughts had started.

It was only worrying at first, Rico getting too cold or coughing too hard without somebody to help him. But the longer he laid there, comfortable in the warmth of the bed, the more he started to feel guilty.

Rico was probably layin’ there at home, freezin’ to death. And what was he doing? Feeling some lady up? 

He had the money, didn’t he? He could get up and walk right out that door. Why not? Joe thought for a minute. 

Why would a stud wanna stay with a woman? The feeling of her, he guessed. The way she looked, the chance they might make it again. The woman was certainly pretty, even if she was older -- she smelled good, too. She’d let Joe take a shower with her after, and his own hair was soft and fluffier than usual. 

It just didn’t feel right. And Joe couldn’t put his finger on it until he was getting out of bed, walking to the door, and pulling on his shirt. 

“Joe, I don’t --- you could stay longer! I’d pay you, even!” The lady pulled some money out of the beaded wallet on the nightstand. “We had a good time, didn’t we?”

“Well sure we did, ma’am, but I got a sick kid I gotta get home to -- I didn’t tell ya I had a sick kid, did I?”

She shook her head. "No -- but --"

Joe tipped his hat. "I'm real sorry, ma'am. I'd be glad to come back another day. But right now -- right now, I've gotta go."

And with that, he was out the door. 

The snow had been thick, the flurries sticking to his collar and in his hair, and he'd swigged the wine as he walked, which helped. It wasn't so bad. But in the back of his mind, he was hurrying.

And since he saw Rico laying there in bed, shivering, the thoughts at the back of his mind had come in full force. There was no way to ignore them. As scared as he'd been when Rico first invited him up to stay with him -- when Rico told him he wanted to stay, that the truth was that he was hoping he would -- maybe he had always felt a little bit closer to this. He wanted to protect Rico. He wanted to hold him all winter and keep him warm until they could catch the bus to Florida. He wanted to -- he wanted to do something else. 

In his arms, Rico was breathing shallowly. For a minute, Joe felt panic building in his chest. But Rico wasn't sick. He wasn't coughing or shivering too bad anymore. He was looking right at Joe.

Rico's cheeks were flushed, more than they would be from the cold, and Joe noticed that his eyelashes were longer than he'd realized. He'd never been this close. Joe smelled cigarettes and old coffee and sweat, and all of it smelled like home.

Outside, the wind howled. Small flurries of snow flew under the orange light of streetlamps. 

Rico's eyes were soft, and his face was upturned, and Joe knew what he wanted to do.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a move is made. (Rico's POV)
> 
> There is at least one more chapter coming in this sequence! Then I might continue this in the future. :) I love this fandom

Rico's POV

By the time Rico realized what was about to happen, he didn't move to stop it. He didn't want to.

Joe was so warm, and the air around them felt like there was somethin' electric going through it, and then Joe leaned down toward him, and that hot stone in his stomach flared up. _Oh god._

The minute before Joe's lips reached his felt like a year, maybe more. He knew what it felt like to want this, to hope for this, even to hate himself for feeling it when somebody would brush against him in the bar. It was so close. _Joe was so close._

Something in Rico protested, even as he felt the heat in his body spreading. _This is homo stuff. This ain't something you do._ He was back in the Catholic Church he went to as a kid, the one his father sent him to, sitting in the back of the room. Feeling something rip through him, something wrong that he couldn't fix. _This is gonna send you to hell. This is gonna damn you, Enrico._ But something was different, at least a little bit. It could have been the wine, but the voice felt far away -- almost like someone trying to yell through a door. _You're a freak, Ratso._ The voice sounded like his father's like somebody in an alleyway. _You're a goddamn sinner._

But Joe wasn't -- he couldn't be evil. He was there all the time for him. When he was sick, too sick to get out of bed without help -- when he needed somebody to wipe the vomit off him and change his shirt and carry him up the stairs. He made food for Joe, and Joe made food for him, even if it was terrible. That's what his mother had said to him once: _You make food for somebody, you love them._ And there weren't a whole lot of other words to describe it. Joe was shimmering in the moonlight. Joe was holding him. Joe was beautiful.

The voice came back. _You're damned, Rico. Always knew you were gonna turn out like this. A runt and a sinner._ It collided with the image of Joe, the feeling of being held. He wanted to yell back at it --to shut it up. For all that time wasted counting rosaries, crying in the dark. Knowing nobody could ever get close to him. Knowing he couldn't let them.

So he said something out loud.

"Joe," he said, still nestled in his arms, face upturned, "What are you doin'?"

Joe looked down at him. He still had a slight blush on his face, a moonlit glow, but he didn't look embarrassed anymore. He didn't look scared.

"Hey, Rico," Joe said, and Rico felt the thrill go through him that came every time Joe used his real name. "I'm gonna kiss you."

Rico swallowed, and the voice was gone. And Joe was looking at him with those eyes, those trusting eyes, and he wanted to be kissed.

"Okay," Rico said, his voice edging into the slightly-annoyed tone it usually took on. "Kiss me."

Joe lowered his head down a little, and his lips met Rico's. _God._

 _Oh_. This is what it felt like. This is what it was supposed to feel like. Warm and wonderful, and sparking something, and safe. Rico's mouth was soft against Joe's, letting him kiss him, and Joe _was._ His hand moved to the back of Rico's head, supporting it, and the other hand went up to his chest. Rico felt his breath hitch.

Joe stopped suddenly. When Rico looked up, Joe's pupils were blown, his lips slightly red. Everything was happening fast and slow at the same time, and _he didn't want it to stop._

"You okay?" He asked. He was out of breath, someone pulled out of a dream. _Oh._ _He probably thought you were coughing, goddamn it._

"No, no," Rico said, surprised to find his own voice coming a little short. "No, I was just --" His voice quieted, almost a whisper. "I liked it."

Joe's eyes lit up a little, part of the smile he usually wore tugging at the corner of his lips. Without saying anything, he lifted Rico so he was sitting up straight, facing him. Joe kissed him, really kissed him. And _oh._ His hands went to the sides of Rico's head, softly cradling it, and Rico felt his mouth open. It wasn't that he'd done this before. Something in him felt it. _Hey Rico. You should open your mouth now._ And then he realized why. Joe's mouth opened too, and the kiss got deeper. Rico felt something flush through his entire body. _Dannazione, that was new._

It burned, almost, all over, and Rico felt himself getting hotter and dizzy and breathing hard.

Joe pulled away. He was smiling. "You're all worked up, boy," Joe said. "You ever done this before?" He laughed. Rico's face must have been obvious. His voice softened.

"Aw hell, Rico."

 _You haven't. Never. Not anything close to this. In fact -- this was a whole nother planet._ But Joe was looking at him kinda worried like maybe he'd gone too far, or done too much too quick, or maybe that he was Rico's first kiss. Rico felt something inside tug him back.

 _Hey, Rico. You're kissin' Joe Buck, some street stud you brought into this place, and you like it._ And the wine was still warm in him, and Joe felt solid and alive. _So say something, stunad._

"Hey, Joe."

Joe looked down at him, one of his fingers brushing aside a strand of hair that'd fallen onto Rico's forehead. Joe's finger left a line of sparks on his skin.

"That was a helluva first."

Joe smiled, starting to laugh, and Rico smiled too, just a little. He was still on fire, and the night was still thick. And for now, he could pretend that it would last as long as they wanted it to.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rico is having some trouble coping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!!!!!!! 
> 
> This one is a little sad but I promise this isn’t going to turn into a total angst series ok
> 
> CW internalized homophobia, mentions of the death of Rico’s dad

Rico’s POV

When Rico woke up, he had a headache. The kind of specific ache he hadn’t felt in a long time — not since the one time he’d conned a guy into seeing O’Daniel and had made off with 20 bucks, which he’d accidentally wasted at the bar. Now that had been a goddamn ball. He’d ordered about 5 beers and ended up puking his guts out in the alleyway behind the place and 20 bucks shorter.

Now, the same pounding was behind his eyes, pressing in his temples. For a second, Rico forgot why. And then it came back. It all came back. Oh god.

_You kissed him._

He would have sat up in the bed, but found his muscles hurt too much to do it. A new fear blossomed in his chest, and he shut his eyes tight trying to remember.

Joe coming into the X-flat with a half bottle of wine, his face all rosy from the cold — rosy? _Jesus. What the hell did you do?_

Joe’d given him some wine, he’d drank it, one thing had led to another, and — well. There it was. Joe had held him in his arms, and his face had been all open and moonlit and nice, and he’d kissed him. Kissed him, for god’s sake.

_And the worst part was you liked it._

There was that voice again — the one Rico remembered from the night before. The one telling him everything about what he’d done was wrong. _What the hell were you thinking? What about some big dumb cowboy would ever make you wanna —_

Rico opened his eyes, and the voice faded. His heart was thudding in his chest. Pushing the blankets from his chest, he looked for something to grasp onto, something to calm him down. His eyes rested on the hook by the door — the one usually holding Joe’s stupid cowboy hat, and, sometimes, his own oversized coats. This time, there was nothing.

Nothing — and nothing next to him. The bed was cold except for the indent of Rico’s own body. He couldn’t remember for sure how he’d fallen asleep, let alone how Joe had, but it was obvious that Joe had slept in his own bed. Some of the cold panic that’d gripped him fell away. He felt around under the covers, and registered foggily that his shirt was unbuttoned, slipping down his chest. He paused — deciding whether to go lower. There was a burning in his stomach, and it reminded him of how he’d felt when Joe had kissed him. New and weird.

He reached lower. His pants were still buttoned. A wave of something passed through him, and Rico wanted to count it as relief, but it wasn’t. At least not all the way.

_All right. So you kissed. You didn’t do nothing else. Which is lucky considering — considering Joe’s job. All you did was kiss._

He was rationalizing, he knew it. But at least he hadn’t done anything he couldn’t take back. The voice in his head was coming back, whispering to him in a way that put a pit in his stomach again.

_And that’s exactly why you gotta kick him out. Invite him up to your place, and he gets you into some kind of goddamn homo shit. Probably wanted it from the beginning. Probably wanted something from you the whole damn time, something bad —_

_But wasn’t that what he said you wanted? Wasn’t that what he was afraid of the first time he came up to your place? That you wanted something from him? That you were gonna take advantage when he didn’t know you in the first place? Why are you pretending that’s what you think when you know it’s not —_

Rico smacked himself lightly on his temple. It was too much. He needed something to distract him, something to stop him from thinking about whatever he remembered from the night before.

He realized he was still staring at the hook, and the fact that Joe’s hat wasn’t on it.

The pit in his stomach dropped out, the bottom going lower than he thought was possible. Joe was gone.

_He left you._

He’d kissed Joe — Joe had kissed him, really — and it was too goddamn much, and Joe left. Probably didn’t want no part of this goddamn mess, this goddamn X-flat and Rico’s bum leg and his being sick in the head. He imagined Joe walking down the street arm in arm with a pretty lady — the same lady he always imagined when he thought about the women Joe made it with. Blonde and young and pretty and all-American. The opposite of everything he was.

The flat was cold, winter sun barely warming the strips of the floor where it fell.

_He’s better off, you know. Sleeping in them nice hotels with those nice ladies. Making money. Not bothering with your goddamn unsaved soul._

Rico knew it was true. And still his throat tightened. Joe’s bed looked fresh, the covers still strewn around, an old undershirt half-hidden under the ratty quilt they’d managed to find in the dumpster of some apartment complex when Joe decided to stay.

_Makes sense,_ the voice said. And then another one — the one from last night, the one that pushed back against it, Rico realized, had its own say.

_And he’s gone. And his eyes are gone, and his face is gone, and his stupid goddamn voice is gone. And his mouth — his mouth is gone. His mouth — the electric feeling from it like a thunderstorm — the way you felt so hungry —_

Rico felt heat behind his eyes. He peeled the covers down from his legs, swung them over the side of the bed slowly, muscles protesting the whole way. Something in him wanted to see Joe’s bed. No, not see it. Be in it.

He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t want to. The only person or thing that had ever stuck around was gone, and it was too early to cry about it. So he was going to lay down on the only thing Joe left and try to sleep and pretend that he wasn’t alone.

His head swam with exhaustion and the headache and a feeling that was only starting to unravel itself in his gut — something like shame, maybe, or else it was his stupid body finally catching up to what was up.

He staggered over to Joe’s bed and fell into it.

It wasn’t soft. Not even close. It felt like scratchy sheets and grit. Rico pressed his face to the undershirt.

There was a moment before he started crying where he didn’t understand why he wanted to. It wasn’t like nobody had ever left him before — like his own goddamn father hadn’t died and left him and his mother hadn’t gone, and his siblings hadn’t scattered to the four winds.  
It wasn’t like people didn’t leave him after he ran a scam on them for food money, even if he liked ‘em a little bit, or if they didn’t leave even when he tried to be good to them. It never mattered. People always left.

_It’s no different now, Rico. Someone’s gone again. Quit your martyr routine._

But he knew it wasn’t no different. It was. It wasn’t somebody. It was Joe.

-

When the tears finally came, they were hot. They started slow, trickling out the sides of Rico’s eyes, his face pressed to the sorry excuse for a mattress. He felt the salt stinging his eyes, staining the sheets dark.

The voice in his head all but stopped trying. He felt shut down — unable to do anything but feel his breathing getting more and more uneven, his shoulders heaving.

_You haven’t cried in a year._

The spot where Joe should have been still felt slightly warm, and Rico thought maybe that meant he hadn’t left too long ago — that he’d decided not to wake him up to say goodbye.

He heard the sound of his own crying. 

_Goddamn it, you’re weak. Look at you, crying over some guy off the street. And you did it to yourself. You made him leave with your weird, goddamn awful self._

Rico was crying now, he knew it. No hiding behind a few tears. They were pouring out, his soft sobs muffled by the mattress. He could already feel his eyes swelling up. On top of everything else. The thought somehow made him more upset, like seeing himself cry in a mirror when he was a kid. Everything was narrowing down to Joe’s twin bed and what it was missing.

Rico’s thoughts swirled, images fading in and out like a fever dream: Joe’s face as he held him, the feeling of being held for the first time in so long. The Florida Orange Juice cutout and his daydreams of someday making it there. _Making it with Joe._

Rico realized he was holding Joe’s pillow and was now hanging on to the sides of it, his tears soaking the fabric.

_So this is what it feels like. That thing in the movies when people fling themselves on couches and cry their eyes out. This is it._

Rico lowered his head to the side, drawing up his legs closer to his body and cringing as his bad leg stuck. He knew with Joe gone he’d have things to do, ends to make meet. He was alone again, and that was hard living. No need to lay around all day with some kind of broken — beat-up feeling. But the tears wouldn’t stop, and he laid down again, shutting his eyes.

Slowly, Rico realized he was hearing the sound of a door opening softly — the squeaking of the hinges, the echo of the stairwell as it clicked shut. He lifted his head off the pillow a bit, fear clenching his stomach.

It was Joe.

He stood in the doorway, a paper grocery bad hanging off of one arm, his hat tilted to one side like usual. Rico’s heart skipped a beat. _Goddamn it, he looked —_

And then Joe spotted him — his tear-stained face, looking all mushad, and dropped the bag onto their small card table.

”Rico,” he started, then stopped, and crossed the room to the bed.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH BABy, It's almost HURT COMFORT TImE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little sad, but as I mentioned above, it's generally a h/c fic, so the sad stuff is getting soothed. CWs include the same internalized homophobia, as usual, homophobic language, and some physical abuse in the past. (Hitting by a parent.) Hopefully dissipating a little soon maybe?
> 
> I took much cuddle inspo for my next chapter from Malcifer's excellent fic Bridge Over Troubled Water. (READ)

Rico's POV

Rico looked up, and there he was. Joe stood in the doorway, arms half-full with paper bags. Rico could tell by the look on his face that he'd been smiling before his face had dropped into what it was now -- a look that made Joe's stomach twist.

He looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. For a second, Rico couldn't tell why -- he was still a little tired, and the X-flat was so cold. Why would Joe look like that unless he remembered -- unless he remembered exactly what had happened last night. Exactly what mistake he'd made. _Oh god._ He felt mucus catch in the back of his throat. His mind reeled, and for a minute, anything felt possible, any kind of reaction -- none of them good.

_And here it comes. You were crying your friggin' eyes out thinkin' he'd gone, and now he's back, and what's actually worse? On one hand, you would've scared him off, probably died in here without the help. (You know that's not the whole reason.) But now -- on the other hand -- he came back._

Images flashed through Rico's mind -- Joe, remembering everything all at once when he saw Rico's sorry face all full of snot, getting his bed dirty to top it off. Joe, raising his hand at Rico the way his dad had done once or twice when he found things in Rico's room he'd tried to hide. When he couldn't say the rosary without feeling like his hands would burn off because of the guilt in his head. He hardly remembered the feeling of the slap on the side of the head, but he remembered his father's face. Dirty from his job as a shoe-shiner, his voice rough from inhaling chemicals all day. _You get over here, boy. The Bible says to educate the children, for the children to listen to their parents. And I'm gonna save you._

Joe, standing over him, fury on his face, hitting him the same way. And the worst part -- the worst part --

_You'd deserve it._

Rico felt his eyes well up all over again. Joe was stuck in the doorway for what seemed like forever. And then Rico felt the tear spill out and roll down his cheek, the start of a snot bubble forming in his nose, and Joe shook himself out of the stupor he was in. His face turned from surprise to something like -- _was it concern? Could it be something other than hating him?_ He dropped the bags, and Rico heard the soft thump of produce hit the ground. _Probably stolen from that stand,_ Rico thought, suddenly aware that Joe had been out getting food for them both. Then he realized the way he must look. Sprawled out all over Joe's bed, the pillow soaked from his crying. The blankets, or what passed for them, all huddled up around him, less for warmth than for comfort.

Joe's eyes were a little wild, and he took a few steps toward Rico before realizing he'd left the door wide open and doubling back to close it. Rico couldn't believe how quickly Joe was sitting on the end of his own bed. Rico curled his legs up a little toward himself to make room for Joe. The fear was still beating in his heart. 

_This is Joe,_ the nice part of his mind said. _It's just Joe. Joe ain't gonna hurt you._

But there were still those memories, and there were still those feelings welling up inside him. He felt the weight of Joe as he settled into the bed. He couldn't look at him, at least not in the eyes. It was too much. He could smell the familiar scent of cheap laundrette soap mixed with the scent of Joe himself, and everything in him wanted to badly to relax, to fall into the calm of Joe, but he couldn't. For all he knew, Joe was afraid of what had happened. For all he knew, Joe had gone to steal some food for him before he ran off somewhere where people didn't try to pull shit on him. One last gesture before he left Rico all on his own. He felt more tears catching in the fabric of Joe's pillow. There was nothing he could do now but wait. He tried to lay as still as he could, stiff and shivering.

Rico felt a light weight on his leg, almost like Joe was testing to see if he would break before he could touch him. Rico shivered. He could almost sense the way Joe must have been looking at him -- a combination of pity and fear, maybe, like someone might when they saw a sick dog. It was torture. There was Joe, good and wholesome, just wanting to make his way in the world, and what had Rico done?

_You ruined it. You had a good thing going, Rico, somebody who liked you, and what do you do? You go and kiss him --_

Joe shifted.

"Hey, Rico. Aw, hell, Rico. Please don't cry."

Rico couldn't say anything.

"I .... I don't even know why you're cryin', but I have an idea, and I'm -- I'm awful sorry."

_He was sorry?_

"I'm awful sorry. Awful. I shouldn't have done it. I don't know why, but I just wanted -- I just wanted to. And I guess I thought you did too, but maybe --"

Rico lifted his head a little, staring at the wall.

"And I understand if you wanna go on -- I mean, if you want me to go, I will. After all, this is your place, and I don't --"

Rico sat up suddenly, facing Joe, blankets still gathered around his shoulders. The burning in his stomach was still there, but it felt less hot now, less scary. Joe's blue eyes snapped to his, and Rico suddenly couldn't notice anything except how _wide_ they were. He felt a shiver go through him. Joe wasn't crying, but there was a shine to his eyes that told Rico he wasn't entirely okay, either. Maybe far from it. _What? Joe was upset too? After what had happened? It didn't make any sense. Oh, Marone._ It was quiet, and Rico realized Joe was waiting for him to say something. 

"Uh," he cleared his throat. It was suddenly dry. "Joe,"

Joe looked at him, really looked at him, like he was waiting for Rico to tell him whether he could live or die.

"No, I don't want you to go. Alright? I don't goddamn want you to go."

Joe swallowed, stone still on the bed. "Okay." He sounded shaky in a way Rico'd never heard before. He was so used to macho Joe, swaggering Joe, smiling Joe. Not this. "But ... Rico ... do you remember, uh --" He stammered. "Aw, hell, Rico. I've just gotta come out and say it, don't I?"

Rico stared, eyes wide. He'd used up all his words.

Joe wiped his forehead, the blonde hair sticking to it even in the cold. "Do you remember last night? Cause if you don't, well, we -- we kissed." It came out clumsy. "And -- and as I recall, boy, you liked it, actually, and -- well, I liked it, too --"

Rico remembered. He wanted to tell Joe. But there was still something in the air, something that made him feel like he was frozen in place. Joe furrowed his brow, his face taking on the kind of determined look it sometimes did when somebody looked at the two of them wrong, or snickered at Rico as he walked. 

"And damn it, I wanna be respectful, but I'll tell you right now I don't regret it."

"Joe," Rico started, snapping him out of his rant. "Joe --"

Now Joe was looking at him again, all his attention focused on Rico, and the heat was back, but it was different. He knew what he was about to say. He could hear all of the voices -- his father's his own, everyone who had ever drilled it into him that this was _wrong, wrong, wrong,_ and he wished more than ever that he could shut the hell up and curl into a ball and never say what he had to say. But he had to say it. Or else Joe might get up and walk out that door, _for real this time, Rico. But would that be so bad?_

He'd just have to push it away. It wouldn't be so different than before he met Joe. Just a little lonelier. But he'd have his own place, and more food, and peace and quiet. _And space where Joe's bed used to be, and no more Florida, really, there'd be no hope for that no more. And no comforting sound of Joe getting ready at night when Rico was half asleep. And no more hearing him come home. And never another night like the last one, where Joe had actually wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to kiss him, goddamn it. That feeling, like a planet went down his throat and into his chest. Kiss that goodbye, Rico. Or say something._

So Rico gathered whatever strength there was in his cried-out, cold body, and he said it.

"I remember. And -- goddamn it. I think -- I think I liked it too."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff .... with plot. (To the tune of "Mopping the floor ... at night.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter sooner than later!

Rico's POV

Joe's face softened, and Rico felt the tension in his chest melt like butter. _God, they hadn't had butter in a while._ There was still that little knot in the bottom of his stomach, sticking like a stubborn thorn, but Rico ignored it. He only wanted to look at the way Joe's face was suddenly warm, the fear draining faster than Rico could ever imagine his would. _Joe, always so strong -- always so ready to adapt to new things. He was like a puppy sometimes. Weird thing to think._

Joe wiped his eyes, a little moisture coming off on the back of his hand. He sniffed loudly, clearing his throat. _He doesn't want me to think he was crying,_ Rico thought, and for some reason, felt a little lightness in his chest. _He wants me to think he wasn't scared._

Neither of them said anything for a good long minute. What was there to say? They'd both admitted something that could hang in the air forever if they let it, and Rico was considering it even though the good feelings fighting their way up through his body. _It would be easier,_ the voice said. _You can love something -- Wait. Love something? Did you just think what I thought you did, Rico?_ _Oh. Goddamn it._ It wasn't loving. No way. People didn't just fall in love like that, did they? He'd seen more than a couple movies -- snuck in with Joe a few times, hiding something to pick at in Rico's big coats. In the romance ones, there was always a lady swooning in the arms of some big buff man. They'd sit under a big full moon and hold hands, and then, at the end of the movie, they'd get married. He never liked those movies -- they were sappy and boring. But Joe dragged him in -- sometimes literally -- and they'd always end up sitting through the whole thing, Joe sighing when the couple kissed onscreen. Sometimes, Rico had to admit, he got invested. That was the way it was. Some man and some lady, falling in love and tying the knot. Not this. _What was this, anyway?_ _One kiss and you're scared he's gonna leave you?_

Rico shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts. Joe was still looking at him. 

"What?"

"Well, I don't really know. I guess I'm just lookin' at you."

"Why?" Rico frowned. The old defenses were coming back.

Joe smiled, almost like Rico's sudden snippiness was funny. "Aw, come on, Rico. You know I'm not gonna do nothin'."

"Well, good. What happened there ..." His voice got lower. "I guess I liked it. But I'd like anything with that wine in me."

He regretted it almost as soon as he said it -- Joe might get sad again. This wasn't no romance movie, but he still knew it probably wasn't the right thing to say. Instead, though, Joe just kept smiling in that strange way.

"Boy, had you ever been kissed?"

Embarrassment bloomed in Rico, his face going red. Not only had nobody ever asked him before, but he hadn't been. _Before last night,_ the voice reminded. "None of your goddamn business."

Joe grinned. "Aw, I don't know why the hell not. I don't know why nobody would."

Rico was suddenly aware of how close Joe was, sitting right near his curled-up legs. "Gee, I dunno. Maybe cause I'm a runt and I got a bad leg and they don't want no son of a poor off the boat shoe-shiner?"

Joe's weight felt warm, and the winter sun was streaming now through the window and onto Joe's bed. Rico realized he didn't know what time it was. It still felt like morning. He remembered one of the movies Joe had insisted on seeing. _Aw, come on, Rico. It looks nice._ He'd given up and soon enough they'd been sitting in the back row so as not to attract attention. The movie was about some lady who loved a married man. They wanted to get together, but both of them kept stopping because they didn't want to do something wrong. It didn't seem so wrong to Rico -- she loved him, and if she'd just leave her husband, she could be with him for good. Instead, in the end, they'd both given in and woke up in the same bed. The lady realized what she'd done, and said _Oh, God. I can't change it._ But the man woke up too, and as it turned out they decided to stay together no matter what her husband would do. It wasn't a very satisfying ending, but Joe seemed to like it. Now he was the one in bed.

"Well, all that might be true," Joe said, "But also there's that you're nice to me, and you're small, and --"

"I'm _small_?"

Was he imagining it, or was Joe blushing?

"Well yeah," he said. " I like small. It's good to hold."

It would be easy to get up and go to the other bed. Just get right up and chalk the night up to being lonely. Just two lonely people. _But it wasn't that, was it?_ The idea of Joe liking to hold him felt like something opening inside him. There was no other way to think it. Rico decided there might be some middle way around this.

"Joe ... you ever kissed somebody like ..." Rico paused, trying to find the words. "Well, I know you kissed goddamn near everybody on earth. What I mean is you ever ..."

"Yeah," Joe said. "I did. In Texas."

Rico swallowed. "Well, yeah. To answer your question, that was the first time I ever did that."

"Oh," Joe said. He didn't look surprised exactly, but something in his face shifted. Then that familiar playful smile came back. "Well, did you ever expect it would be from a cowboy?"

_Aw, hell._ Rico couldn't help but smile at that. A little laugh escaped him, and he coughed. He could tell they were done talking. There was only so much to say. He remembered the way the woman in the movie had laid back, knowing that things would have to be dealt with soon, but not then. She'd said so. It felt funny to Rico, this idea of putting things off. But here, it was starting to make more sense. There was Joe, sitting as near to him as he might have wished for a week before, but farther than he'd been last night. Joe had been closer then than Rico had ever imagined he would be. And yeah, maybe it was nice. Joe's smile had faded into a sort of soft look -- not too different than the one he'd had when he'd held Rico. Rico felt a little nervousness rise in his throat. It wasn't nighttime now. If they did anything, it would be -- it would be real. _Can't go back now._

"You mind if I get a little closer?" Joe asked. He'd slid one hand toward the empty space behind Rico. The bed was small, but two people could still fit if they squeezed together. _Now or never, Rico,_ the voice said. _Pick one. Damnation or this._ He felt himself tense up. _What would people say? They'd beat you up, probably. This is gonna make things hard for you and you know it._ It was true. But maybe -- well, maybe that could be dealt with later. Maybe that could be a problem for the future.

Joe looked at him, waiting for an answer. Rico tried to shut his brain off. It mostly worked.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound like he didn't care.

He expected Joe to sit next to him, maybe tuck his legs behind Rico's back. What he really did was slide his body behind Rico's completely -- his stomach to Rico's back -- and wrap one arm under him and the other one around his chest, like he was holding him upright. _But you're laying down,_ the voice reminded him. _So that's different, isn't it?_

Joe was so goddamn warm. He'd been warm the night before, sure, but this was so much more -- comfortable? No, not the right word. _Safe?_ Rico felt like he was buzzing all over. He could feel Joe's breath on the back of his neck. 

"This okay?" Joe asked. Rico couldn't do anything but nod yes. Joe moved down the blanket that had been covering his neck and shoulder. The cold air of the X flat raced in, and Rico realized he didn't feel uncomfortable. Joe was like a goddamn furnace. He was --

_Oh, lord._ Joe had moved his arm and was running his fingers along Rico's neck, down to his shoulder. 

"That okay, too?" Joe asked. Somehow, not seeing Joe's face made it a little easier for Rico to answer. 

"Yeah, it's okay." He still wanted to sound unshaken, but it was getting harder.

"You got, whaddya call 'em. Goosebumps," Joe said. "So you like that, boy?"

Rico shivered, but this time it wasn't from the cold.

He tried not to think about how practiced Joe probably was at doing things like this. _Aw, hell. How much is he?_ "You do this with everybody?" Rico asked.

Joe chuckled behind him, a little muffled. "Naw. I don't."

Rico expected him to say more, but he didn't. Instead, he stopped touching his neck. Rico, to his embarrassment, almost let out a little whine of protest. Joe put his other arm around Rico's chest, completely encircling him. It was silent for a while. Rico felt the rise and fall of Joe's breathing. _So this is what it feels like._

"Hey, Joe?" Rico said, breaking the calm.

Joe made a soft grumbling sound, the same one Rico sometimes heard when he was in the middle of a deep sleep.

"Yeah Rico?"

Rico felt a pleasant chill go through him. It usually did when Joe said his real name.

"You're warm."

Joe laughed softly, and Rico felt him squeeze a little harder. He pulled him closer, if that was even possible, ( _It is.)_ and Rico felt totally folded into Joe's body. He could tell by his voice he was smiling.

"Rico," Joe murmured. The same way he'd said it when he'd first got to the flat. The first time Rico had felt that familiar warmth, the same one spreading through him as Joe held him. "Rico, Rico, Rico."


End file.
